


Answers

by skamtrash8903



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst, Desire, Gay, Gay Love, Gay Male Character, Longing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 05:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21049409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skamtrash8903/pseuds/skamtrash8903
Summary: Elio begins to long for his past lover, Oliver, while sitting in his apartment. Much to his surprise, Oliver seems to feel Elio’s yearning for him and.......





	Answers

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I’m back! I’m really getting into this so enjoy! If anyone else is obsessed with CMBYN like me then 100000000000% comment and we can share Instagrams and obsess together.  
XOXO

It's raining outside today; perhaps this rain carries the ability to cleanse my soul of the man I was with last night. He was kind, and he held me after we made love, but he wasn’t Oliver. Not Oliver, so here I am watching the droplets of water fall and soak into the ground, wondering when I’ll be able to make like them and disappear forever into the porous concrete.

It’s raining, though not any less beautiful as it would be if the sun were to show her face to the world. The sweet pitter-patter of the rain always soothed my deepest anxieties, even on a day like today. Today I argue with myself over what to play at my next showcase in New Zealand: Bach, Gershwin, Liszt, Chopin, Stravinsky? Do I wish to be pretentious in front of the aristocrats that would, without a single doubt, be in attendance? My father would advise me to play something that I could feel in my bones, something that made my heart sing. These days, I feel like my heart had grown polyps on her vocal chords and can no longer sing a damn thing. I ponder on the last time my heart sang; Oliver had been kissing my neck tenderly whilst I whispered terms of lustful endearment into his lovely ear, and my heart was singing so loudly I was sure he could hear its tune. He sidled up closer to me in order to nibble my ear in the way he knew I liked, and I wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders and kissed every inch of skin I could manage to reach. Every kiss I placed onto his skin was a sonnet written from me to him. These sonnets were taken by my heart and put to a tune, and thus my heart sang. If only he could hear how weak her voice has become without him.

I sit by the windowsill, allowing the hours to pass me by and for my mind to melt into a liquid of nothingness. I feel a certain numbness inside of me, though not the kind of numb that you experience at the dentist's office; this numb is different. It's not localized, it's everywhere and it infects everything. Am I depressed? No, certainly not. I laugh with my friends over a round of drinks every weekend, so I can't be depressed. On the other hand, however, I have a hole in my soul that no concerto or bottle of wine can seem to satisfy. Maybe depression is what I'll call it. If I label it at least then I can organize it into the rest of the feelings and stash it away. The windowsill is collecting droplets of water at the bottom of it, and I can't help but to run my index finger through the little puddle and taste it. I notice the room around me as I take my finger out of my mouth and drag it on my sweater to dry it. The sofa in this room is brown and worn, the walls are a pale shade of turquoise, the rug is taupe and warm to the touch, and the fireplace has developed a slow burn. I've always loved this room. I could paint a lovely picture of it if time, and my lack of painting ability, allowed me to do so. I'd put the painting right here in this very room, and someday another young painter, talented or not, will come and paint one just like it; and, before I know it, there'll be a collection of these paintings, hundreds of them. What a lovely thing: this very room, as glum as it is, would be pictured over and over again in its enigmatic glory. Maybe the occupants sitting at the windowsill in the other pictures will be happier than I; maybe the couch will be less dull and stiff; maybe the rain will flow in through the crack in the window and flood the room, drowning every version of me that someone paints out of his misery; and maybe the Elio in one of those other paintings will have the courage to go and find the one he dreams of every night, the namesake of every last one of his tears, and kiss him. Every dimension depicted on every canvas will have its own Elio; and, deep within the eyes of that Elio, its own Oliver.

The phone is ringing. It's ringing, but it sounds so different than what I remember. Probably because I haven't picked up a phone call in God knows how long, but still—different. I get up off of the couch, crack my neck, and meander toward the phone. I pick it up, take a languorous breath, and mutter into the home phone's speaker,

"Hello?"

"Elio. It's me, Oliver."

My heart takes a deep dive toward the floor, and the rest of my body follows suit. I'm on the floor, phone in hand, and I speak again,

"Oliver? It can't be you-it can't-I can't-what?" I sound like a dumbass. 

"Elio, it's really me. Hi. Listen, I need to speak to you and it's not because I need something or because I want a friend or anything insignificant like that. I need you Elio." Every time he says my name I fall all over again, and he knows it. 

"What do you mean you need me?" How foolish of me to ask when we both know I'm already fully aware of what he's speaking about. 

"You know exactly what I mean Elio," he has never been more right. 

"I've been wasting away waiting for something in my life to make me whole again. It took me over two decades to realize that thing is you. Actually, I think I've always known. From the moment I shook your hand in the villa I think I knew I wanted to grow old with you. We spoke abstractly when we met in Italy not too long ago, when you showed me where my ghost spot is. Since then, I haven't been able to sleep, eat, laugh, nothing. Ah, fuck that. I haven't been able to be me since I left you that day in Rome. The real Oliver got on that train, but he never got off. I got married to a woman, even though I'm gay. I had children, and I love them, but I'd rather raise them with you. God Elio I can't do this anymore alright? I can't keep pretending. I don't wanna be 'good' or whatever the fuck that means. I don't wanna be alone and I don't wanna be hurting and I don't wanna be without you!" He's yelping like an injured dog that needs to be shown affection. I've never heard Oliver like this before. I know he means every word he's saying, so I know I have to mean my next words too.

"Oliver, oh Oliver. You have no idea how long I've been waiting for you. I've been watching it rain outside for five fucking hours!" I laugh, then continue to speak,

"Oliver I can't be without you any longer. Come to me now. Please. You know I live in New York now, right? Well I do. I'm pretty sure I told you that, but if I didn't then I'm telling you now and that's all that matters. I live in the Bushwick Complex in the city. Apartment 96Z. Come find me Elio." With that, I hang up.

I get up off the floor, slam the home phone back into the receiver and scream. A guttural scream, a scream that would shatter the ears of every Elio in every dimension in every painting in every way. This is it. He has come back to me. The numbness that I felt is completely gone now, and instead I feel like I'm buzzing with life. Not life, love. I'm going to be with Oliver again. The Oliver. My Oliver. 

I'm not sure if he'll be coming today, but by the sound of his voice—so desperate, so needy, so good—I assume it'll be today. I mean, why wait? Why wait any longer to jump into bed and fuck like we've never fucked before? 

No use cleaning up the apartment, I think to myself. 

Oliver won't exactly be looking at the carpet when he's fucking me. I chuckle to myself, and wonder for the first time if he'll even want to fuck. Maybe he'll want to talk, then fuck, or not even have sex at all? God, if he doesn't want me today then I'm gonna have to tuck my hard-on into my waistband. Jesus, it's like I'm a teenager again. My mind is racing in time with the beat of my heart and the throb of my cock.

I distance myself from my rambling brain, much like I do when I'm transcribing music or playing piano, and realize it has been half an hour since the phone call. I've been thinking too much, far too much. We'll talk, sweetly and with terms of endearment. Hopefully we'll kiss. 

We’ll definitely kiss.

Mm, to kiss Oliver again. 

What a perfect painting that image would make.


End file.
